


The Nam-Shub of Loki

by cerebel



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Apocalypse, Glass Cages, I am a dork, Intersexuality, Linguistics, Loki is actually Enki too, M/M, Mpreg, Post-Movie(s), Science, Sumerian Mythology - Freeform, The Nam-Shub of Enki, Viruses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebel/pseuds/cerebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a cult catching on like wildfire and a virus breaking down the human mind, person by person. Loki has a plan to fight it, but his reasons, and his interests, remain his own. </p><p>A retelling of Sumerian mythology, with Loki playing the role of Enki in the re-splintering of human culture. Contains pseudo-mpreg, and intersexed Loki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nam-Shub of Loki

**Author's Note:**

> Another one kind of based off of Neal Stephenson. In this case, I took most of my Sumerian myth details from Snow Crash, so if anything's wrong, it's because I got it second-hand and then put my own spin on it. 
> 
> As always, hit up my [ask page](http://cerebel.tumblr.com/ask) on Tumblr if you have any questions, or extraneous comments, or if you want to be buddies.

_Once upon a time there was no snake, there was no scorpion,_  
There was no hyena, there was no lion,   
There was no wild dog, no wolf,  
 There was no fear, no terror,  
 Man had no rival. 

_In those days, the lands of Subur (and) Hamazi,_  
 Harmony-tongued Sumer, the great land of the decrees of princeship,  
 Uri, the land having all that is appropriate,   
The land Martu, resting in security,  
The whole universe, the people in unison  
 To Enlil in one tongue spoke. 

~*~

Midgard has entered a new era of peace and prosperity. An alien attack, the thought of foes from outside their world, drives them to unite, to quiet their differences. The flow of information is pure and quick, at the speed of light, built into cables and screaming through the air. Peace spreads like a virus. 

Absurd, thinks Loki. The old differences will just flare up deeper and more terrible again, all the stronger for how they have been ignored. 

His hand plays on his belly, rubbing absently, and he watches as the cultists accost passers-by. They are dressed casually, no robes of white or painted faces, and Loki finds it obscene. But the rest of the world likes it. They enjoy the thought that there is a god to be worshipped, one that was here, one that saved them. 

Not just Thor. 

They treat all the Avengers with supplication.

Loki turns away, in disgust. It is autumn now, leaves brown and red, bloodied by the dying year. The wind is crisp off of Lake Michigan. And Loki, the exile, cannot feel if the child in his belly survived his violent exile. He is mortal now, blind and deaf to the subtle whispers of the world. 

He will find out soon enough, when it grows. 

Loki has made no secret of his presence, no trick of his routine. Odin arranged for him to have a place to live, neighbors who would ignore any oddities. Odin arranged for Loki to be alone in a sea of enemies, his thoughts the only steady ground, the only thing he can trust. Loki’s ever-so-esteemed _All-Father_ hopes that Loki will be convinced, eroded, worn away. He was bloodied by Asgardian justice, made vulnerable, and now...

Wasn’t it what he wanted? To be equal with Thor, to share in his punishment as well as his sins.

Conversely, however, it makes Loki’s hate for Odin grow ever-more. 

He lingers in the Park of the Millennium today. It is _quite_ tiresome waiting for SHIELD to come and find him; they are far less efficient than he had assumed. Or has Thor warned them away? If they don’t come for him in a week or so, he’ll have to find a way to get their attention.

He circles the mirrored bean, the curved sculpture so famous. It is an object of power, Loki thinks. These mortals can sense it, even if they do not know. So many of them step inside it, underneath it, expecting to see one large distorted reflection. Instead, they see a scattering, two dozen facets of their own faces and forms, stretched thin or pressed squat, from above or the side or a combination of the two. And Loki well knows that so many glittering facets are infinitely superior to a single one. 

Humans, it seems, are obsessed with uniting. They want to make their world one. Loki would rather keep it as it is, engulfed in war and petty conflict. He _likes_ war; it seems that the sceptre didn’t manage to wipe that away. 

He catches a familiar form out of the corner of his eye. A reflection. He whirls.

Clint Barton faces him, across the flat concrete expanse. Innocents move between them, wandering, chattering, taking pictures. There is a strange uniformity to their movement, as though they were ants, subtly coordinated by instinct and pheromone. 

Loki slowly becomes aware of several other SHIELD agents, taking their places around him. They form a wide net, a subtle thing that most any spectator would miss entirely. But the crowd flows through them like water, and Loki knows. 

He looks to Barton, and inclines his head, once. It is agreement; he will go where they herd him.

Barton turns and walks, and Loki follows. 

Step by step, the net tightens. Until they herd him into a large white van, and take their places in one car ahead and one car behind. 

Loki steps in, faking a comfortable posture. His heartbeat is quick. Two agents in the back and two in front. Barton is behind. Loki understands why; he would want to open himself up for backstabbing either.

The van lurches into motion. Barton steps forward and shoves Loki roughly against the side, tugging his coat off, patting him down from waist to feet, then ribs and shoulders and arms. Loki’s only carrying a single hidden weapon, and Barton takes it. 

“We hear you’re human now.” 

“By the wisdom of the All-Father.” 

Strange; the presence of Barton, the smell of him, has done something to alleviate a nausea so constant he hadn’t even realized it was there. He feels better. More powerful, stronger. 

“Well, he should’ve known we wouldn’t just let you run around.” He pushes Loki down on a bench. 

Loki follows, obedient enough, hoping that Barton would sit next to him. No luck; he stands across from Loki, looking ready to attack if Loki so much as looks at him cross-eyed. 

“We’re taking you in,” says Barton, his eyes casting away. Loki watches him, still. Certain memories are closer than he would like. His hand pulls back to his belly. Barton continues. “Any resistance will be met with lethal force. We’re not joking around. Not anymore.” 

“I never doubted you.” 

~*~

The accommodations are comfortable, to his surprise. The cell has three rooms, walled with a substance like glass but that Loki senses is not quite the same. They are furnished sparsely, not in the manner suiting a king, but with no obvious torture in mind. Loki lets them lead him in, docile as a lamb, doesn’t even flinch when the door is shut behind him. 

Ah, yes. They can observe him from any angle. There is no privacy, and he’s been allowed none of his possessions -- dressed in a jumpsuit of somewhat offensively pale blue. He pauses, only the glass dividing him from Barton. 

“Your eyes,” says Barton.

Loki looks away. “What about them?” 

“They’re green.” 

~*~

They let him stew, for a time. A doctor comes in with two armed men and takes some samples, blood and hair and skin scrapings. She clearly has instructions not to interact with Loki, because whenever he speaks, she shoots the guards a frightened look and proceeds to do her job with extra gusto. 

So Loki is left here. 

He learns the dimensions of the first room. A bed built into the wall, a pad for a mattress and a pillow, each with nothing sharp or stiff inside them. The next room: a toilet, a thin shower without much room to move, and a sink. Again, few moving parts, lots of solid pieces, and nothing Loki can access with any ease.

The third room is the mystery. It has tables protruding from one wall -- work surfaces. Chairs. There are shelves set into the walls. It’s as though they plan to keep him here for some time. Even more interesting: there is a little gap like a mouse-hole in the floor, beneath the desks. There is room to run cables inside. Power. Data. 

This is designed to pique his interest, Loki knows, but it works, nonetheless.

~*~

Fury comes to see him on what Loki reckons is somewhere close to the boundary between the second and third day. He has not utilized the shower yet; he has been unwilling to bare his skin to these strangers, not without hope of a reward in the future. Loki needs a _reason_. 

Fury steps in with what Loki assumes is his usual swagger. Loki looks up, moves gracefully to his feet, and steps closer to the glass. 

It’s a concession of power. Immediately. According to common tactics, Loki should have kept his body language pointing away from Fury. Should have affected a regal air that Fury had come to see _him_ , not the other way around. Instead, Loki is quiet and he is demure. He paints the picture of the genuine, humbled leader, the highest brought low. Fury will not believe it, not immediately, but Loki can bide his time.

“Loki,” begins Fury, but Loki interrupts.

“Save your words,” he says. “Yes, I will do what you ask. I will answer your questions, though I cannot divulge secrets of magic or of Asgard, as I no longer know them.” Not entirely true, but good enough. He doesn’t want to make the All-Father any more of an enemy than he has -- at least, not until he’s good and ready.

“Yes, I will consent to being in this cage. And I assume you are prepared to bargain for amenities.” 

A little smile crosses Fury’s face. Loki goes nervous, then. Fury shouldn’t be smiling. 

“Actually, I just came here to talk about a little anomaly in your test results,” he says. Loki’s fingers drift to his arm, where he was punctured, where blood was taken.

“An anomaly?” 

“According to the blood test,” says Fury, “you are a healthy, disease-free, drug-free mortal human being.” 

Loki takes in a breath --

“Who’s pregnant.” 

“Anomalous indeed,” he says, though lips gone numb. He had thought -- oh, he’d considered the possibility, but he hadn’t truly believed that a child would survive the transition into a mortal body. Then Odin must know. He must have allowed for the possibility. 

How wonderful. 

“You want to tell me anything about that?” 

Loki has to think. He has to find a story for this child, one that will be believed, one that will not shame him. He gropes for words, but none come to him.

“Thought so,” says Fury. “Let me know if you got anything to say.” And before he leaves the room, he turns back: “Oh, and I’ll think about the other thing.” 

As the door slams shut, Loki knows that in this round he’s been beaten. 

~*~

The next morning, the guards deposit a newspaper in with their idea of a breakfast: a bowl of slop, a plate of salt, and a glass of sweet. Loki ignores the food in favor of the information. He reads each page, each article, pores over each advertisement. 

_...religious leaders dedicated the building to housing victims of brain disease, especially devoted to those with language impairments. Allegations of illegal medical experimentation on cult members have yielded no evidence of anything but superb, freely provided medical care._

He chews on that, for a time. It’s pricking something at the edge of his mind. Something he doesn’t quite know anymore. 

They come to take the tray away. The food is untouched. Loki folds the newspaper back, and sets it on a shelf. He knows there’s someone who’s cataloguing every article he read, every place he paused. Fury will get the article on the hospital dedication by the cult in a neat memo in under ten minutes, pressed and prepared along with a briefing of how Loki slept.

Poorly. Poorly is how he slept. 

The doctor returns, with a machine that Loki eyes warily, wondering if it is a torture device. He does not expect it of Fury, but, then, he knows not to believe in his own infallibility. 

“This is an ultrasound machine,” she tells Loki. “We’re going to take a look, and see how far along you are.” 

“So you can speak with me, now.” 

She blushes. “It was orders,” she tells him. “Now, I need to talk with you. Health issues.” 

The cell door opens as she has Loki lie back on his cot. 

“Sorry I’m late.” 

Loki winces. Dr. Banner steps into view, lab coat on, gloves too. “Trying your hand at midwifery?” asks Loki, dryly. Cool gel is spread on his belly. There are goosebumps on his bare skin; the cell is cold, and dry. It would not have troubled him in his natural form, but this one is weak, vulnerable.

“What can I say?” Bruce gives him a smile, one that seems to Loki to have a beast’s snarl buried just beneath it. “They wanted someone along who understands weird science.” 

“Can I ask you about your anatomy?” asks the doctor. “Do you have fully functioning sets of male and female genitalia?” 

“I don’t know.” He certainly appears to, but appearances can be deceiving, especially where Odin is concerned. 

“Oh,” she says. “Okay. Well, I don’t know what kind of reading we’re going to get, so this might have to be a repeat procedure. Don’t worry, though; it’s painless, and it’ll tell us a lot about the baby.” 

Loki lays his head back. “Do as you will.” 

She passes the probe over his abdomen, back and forth, but is apparently unsatisfied with the mess of blurry, monochromatic images she gets on the screen. 

“Anatomy?” asks the beast.

“I think it’s testicles,” she says. “Internal, not external.” 

“Makes sense.” 

Another few minutes of this sort of thing, and Loki shifts, restlessly. Rolls his eyes at the doctor’s frustration.

“Okay, let’s do this,” says Banner, and he digs his thumbs into Loki’s abdomen and _shifts_ something. Loki tenses, yelps in pain when Banner presses harder. “Relax. I won’t hurt you.” _Not unless you’re asking for it_ seems to be the subtext. 

“There,” says the doctor. “Got it.” 

That position is held for a count of sixty, and then Banner releases Loki, and he goes limp. 

“Good news,” she says. “The baby looks healthy, and so do you. Looks like you’re about nine weeks along, if you’re proceeding at human norm.” 

She gives Loki tissues, and he wipes away the gel in disgust. Pulls his shirt back on. 

“Are you?” she asks. “Human norm.” 

Loki doesn’t deign to answer. 

“Do you know anything about the father?” she persists. 

Oh, yes. He knows.

“Nine weeks,” muses Banner. 

The conclusion is obvious: nine weeks ago, Loki stepped through the tesseract and arrived on Earth. Conception was either immediately prior, or soon after. 

The doctor clears away the ultrasound equipment, but Banner lingers, outside the cell, peeling off his gloves.

“You’re lucky,” he says. “You could’ve miscarried.” Should have, the way the Hulk knocked him around. 

“Oh, yes,” murmurs Loki. “Such grand luck.” 

“Fury wanted me to ask for a list of requests,” he says. “Got any?” 

Using an intermediary. How annoying. 

“Tell him to ask me himself.” 

Banner studies him a moment, then shakes his head. “I’ll pass it on.” 

~*~

The next day brings a new newspaper. Peace treaties where there shouldn’t be any, wars halting in their paths, and the cult spreading ever-farther. There’s a picture of cult members engaged in a ritual: taking hands with their neighbors and kissing the hand of the person to the right, then the person to the left. 

Loki studies that picture for a long time.

With the evening meal, the guards bring him a set of dry-erase markers, an eraser. Fury wants to see what Loki will do with them. What he’ll write. 

Loki uncaps the red, and steps to the clear wall of his cell. In backwards letters, readable from outside, he writes: 

YOU HAVE A PROBLEM. 

He sits, and he waits. 

“We have a problem?” comes a woman’s voice. Loki’s hackles are raised, immediately. His eyes flit to the form of the Widow, standing outside the cell. He has no doubt that she’s watched every moment of his captivity. She’s analyzed his microexpressions. She thinks she knows why he’s here.

“Are you a woman of faith?” he asks. 

“No,” she says. “Are you?” 

Very funny. 

“Perhaps you should become one.” 

Her eyebrow rises. “Are you asking me to worship you?” 

No; just dropping another breadcrumb. “You said it,” he says. “Not me.” 

“Who’s the father?” she asks. 

He does not respond. He could engage her, start a verbal sparring match, but he’s lost one already, and he doesn’t have room to lose to her right now. He needs to save his words.

“Human or alien?” 

He sits, slowly, on the bed. Faces obliquely away from her. 

“I want to know what we’re dealing with.” 

“Tell Fury that if he does nothing to enlist my help, it won’t matter. In nine months, you’ll have bigger concerns.” Or no concerns at all.

“Is that a threat?” 

“No.”

She’s studying him, again, with those piercing eyes. “It isn’t, is it,” she says. “You’re playing the long game now.” 

A surge of irritation. “Leave me,” he says. “Or bring me something useful.” 

~*~

Evidently, he’s passed the test. Fury shows up the next day, with breakfast, and steps inside the cell. 

“Eat,” he says. “I want you in top form.” 

Loki forces down a few bites, and Fury slides a folder on the table between them. Yes; this is what Loki came here for. He opens it, and begins to skim. Data on a virus, a disease reaching pandemic proportions. Infects the mind of the host and changes the language centers, leaving them unable to communicate in anything but meaningless babble. 

“Infection rates are higher in countries with a lot of violence,” says Fury. “Next page. It’s not a coincidence that we’re seeing the spread of the cult in those places either, is it?” 

“No,” says Loki, “I don’t believe it is.” 

“There’s been some talk of ‘speaking in tongues’ as it relates to this.” 

“Speaking in tongues?” 

“Babbling, as though the word of God flows through them.” 

“No, it’s much worse than that.” 

Loki is fairly certain now. Not entirely, but fairly. 

“Tell me,” says Fury.

He moves to his feet, regally. “Brush up on your mythology,” he says. “From the land you now call Iraq.” He remembers it differently, of course. And only vaguely. The connections of the mythos are subtle, and they grow from the human heart. It’s a terrible way to navigate. 

Fury goes. 

Loki waits. 

~*~

Fury returns, this time with Tony Stark. 

And, thank the All-Father, Stark stays _outside_ the cell. 

“Are we supposed to figure this out from a story about a guy masturbating into a river?” asks Stark. “Cause, I gotta say, this stuff sounds like it was made up by a deranged twelve-year-old.” A beat. “Or me. I probably could’ve made it up.” 

“Unique, isn’t it?” says Loki, choosing to focus on Fury instead. Other mythos tends to have stories that teach lessons, or resonate with the human heart. The three generations of incestuous offspring from a river of seed... no. That should be their first clue that there’s something truthful in it. 

“So I guess you’re talking about the Tower of Babel.” Fury leans back. 

“You were the one who brought up ‘speaking in tongues,’” returns Loki, dryly. 

“Tell me how this applies, Loki.” 

Loki leans forward. “I want improvements in my living condition,” he says. “Access to the internet. Palatable food. My own clothes.” 

“You’ll have what you ask for. Within reason.”

“And I should take it on faith?” 

Fury’s eyes are cold. “I’m a man of my word, Loki. Unlike you.” 

“Then give me your word,” Loki returns. “Or you’ll be left with nothing. Just as I have nothing.” He injects a bit too much anger into his tone. A bit too revealing. 

“Fine,” says Fury. “You got my word: I’ll make things nice and comfy for you here. In this cell. Where you will stay. What’s happening to the human race?” 

Loki pauses, a long moment. He wonders if he should push for more. But -- no. Best to make a sign of good faith. Whether or not he truly believes it. 

“You’re on a path to extinction,” says Loki. 

“Whoa, back up,” says Stark. “How did we get from speaking in tongues to extinction? I’d like to know, because there are a few steps in the middle there that might be important to me.” 

“It’s said that the universal language of mankind is money.” Loki rises to his feet, and picks up one of the markers, turning it over and over in his hands. “Much as Stark may like to believe that is the case, there’s something much older and much more sinister at work. Yes, the men and women infected are speaking a universal tongue. A language from before language, from before humanity. Before free will.” 

Tony’s eyes are following Loki around the room, as he paces. 

Loki continues. “The Babel legend was present even before we made contact with humanity. The Tower of Babel, the descent from Eden, the ruination of paradise -- there are many versions. Somewhere along the way, innocence and purity was corrupted with free will. And with free will comes free thought, and free action, and conflict. 

“Look on your news. Wars are dying out. Conflicts that lasted millennia, gone overnight.” 

“I thought that was a good thing,” says Stark, guardedly.

“Because you’re a simpleminded fool,” Loki snaps at him. “War is a symptom of free will. Mortals will never stop fighting -- unless they are incapable of it.” 

“Not a very charitable view of humanity,” says Stark.

“And a surprising one from a dealer in blood.” 

Stark smiles, tightly. “I’m out of the weapons trade.” 

“And I’m not currently leading a strike against New York City,” counters Loki. “And yet, only one of us is in this cell. I wonder, if we compared death tolls attributed to our hands, which one of us would be the bloodier? Shall we throw in the Widow, for laughs?” 

Stark’s jaw tightens. 

“Children,” says Fury. 

Loki knows why he is in a cell and Stark isn’t. Easy enough -- he isn’t one of them. He hasn’t shown remorse for stamping out their lives. Why should he? He feels none. He feels _nothing_.

“These people don’t look like mindless robots,” says Fury. “They still work, breathe, eat. What’s the problem with that?” 

Fury isn’t truly so ignorant. He’s pushing Loki. Trying to figure out everything that he knows. It’s possible that Fury has already reached these conclusions himself. 

Loki flicks his eyes from Fury to Stark. 

“I want to speak with Agent Barton,” he says. “Alone. Without anyone listening in.” 

“Out of the question.” Fury’s tone leaves no room for argument.

“Find out the problem yourself, then,” says Loki, leaning back again. He makes his posture idle, uncaring. “I will say only one thing: Clint Barton is now the most valuable asset you have. Perhaps the most valuable man in the world.”

~*~

He imagines the arguments that come from this. They suspect Barton of being the father now, Loki supposes. They might send him through lying machines, analyze his body and his DNA, trying to find whatever it is that Loki is implying. 

Unfortunately for them, Barton knows nothing. 

The newspaper arrives again, with a breakfast this time of fruits and yoghurts. Loki lingers in the arts section, this time, reading several movie reviews. They all sound deeply tedious, in one way or another. 

His first indication that his plans have come to fruition is that the guards speak with one another, and then leave, rendering the broader room outside his clear cell empty. Then Barton enters. Loki feels a rush of satisfaction, and he lets a low smile cross his features. 

Barton approaches the cell. Loki draws closer, as though pulled. Pulled by a thread.

This will be the most difficult part of his plan. It depends on manipulation so fine that even Loki doesn’t know if he can manage it. 

But he _must_. 

“What did you want to say?” 

Loki drifts forward again, his expression weak, hopeful. He touches one of the circular air holes in the clear surface, his fingers curling through. He can’t fit more than two. “It won’t take long.” His voice comes out hoarse. So many liars remember to modify their words, their face, and forget their voice. Voice is _ever-so-important_...

“Then get to it.” Barton crosses his arms. 

“I hurt you.” Loki watches Barton, ever-so-carefully. The moment there’s a sign that he’s on the right track... “I took what was in you and made it mine.” 

Barton’s stare is hard, relentless.

It is Loki’s instinct to persuade. _Ah, but you see, it was the Chitauri; it was the sceptre; I had to; I would have been killed..._ And even if these things were true, they weren’t why Loki had invaded Midgard. 

So he discards those lies, and picks another.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathes. “No, don’t say anything. I don’t expect forgiveness. But I need, now, to do whatever I can to fix what I have done, to you. I’m not here for _them_.” 

Barton looks as though he’s been punched in the stomach. Loki lowers his voice.

“I’m here for you.” Hushed, and sweet, and as genuine as he can make it. He can see the darkness in Barton’s eyes, the reflexive and physiological responses that Barton doesn’t understand, can’t understand.

“What do you know that I don’t?” asks Barton. He closes the gap between them to just a few feet -- close enough to touch, were it not for the wall between them. “What did you _take_?” His hands tremble; Loki sees. 

Loki averts his eyes, flinches back.

“It’s mine, isn’t it?” persists Barton.  
 The child.

Loki turns, quick as a snake, eyes flashing. “ _It_ is _mine_ ,” he snarls. 

“But I’m the father. And you did something to me. You made me forget.” 

Loki resists the urge to hit the wall, to shout in rage. His lips part. “What do you remember?” he asks, numbly.

Barton shakes his head, as though to dislodge a fly. “I remember there was some reason I was going to fight,” he says. “Something you told me before the carrier. It made me l--...” 

He stops. 

There’s a stab of cold through Loki’s middle.

Abruptly, Barton _slams_ his hand against the clear polymer. Loki flinches away. 

“Apology not accepted.” 

Barton turns to go. Loki waits for a count of five, and then he calls: “Wait.” 

Barton pauses. Doesn’t look back.

“You’re immune,” says Loki. “To the virus. The sceptre altered you enough for that.” Only the last sentence is a lie. 

Barton gives him one glance, over his shoulder, and then disappears through the door. In seven seconds, the guards have resumed their places, and the cameras’ red lights start blinking again. Loki settles back on the cot and closes his eyes. It takes all of his self-control to keep his emotion at bay. 

~*~

Nine weeks before, he found himself shaking with the aftereffects of the sudden transition. He felt hot, and then cold. He shook and shivered, and the scientist stared, and the soldier worked. He didn’t know how they found a safe place, only that they did, only that Barton was intent on finding exactly everything that Loki needed. 

The scientist was more difficult. More slippery. He was entranced with the tesseract, though; so long as Loki controlled that, he would stay in power.

Another violent shudder went through him. There were things happening, low in his biology. There was something stirring inside. The violent displacement from one end of the galaxy to the other had unleashed a force within. 

He had to pick between them. 

It wasn’t a difficult choice. 

“Hawk,” he’d said. “Come here.” 

All in all, it wasn’t the best sex Loki had ever had. In fact, it wasn’t even good. He was nauseated and feverish, and Barton fucked like a machine. A toy soldier. His mind still squirmed and twisted against Loki’s hold. The orgasm came mostly as a relief of pain; Barton thrust inside him again, again, and released. 

The warmth of his seed loosened Loki, inside. He gasped, and whimpered, and recognized the bolt of want for exactly what it was. 

That was the first moment Barton touched him, voluntarily, without orders, without Loki’s word. He cupped Loki’s cheek. He brushed away tears of sensation, positive and negative. He pulled out, and he urged Loki onto his stomach, and he rubbed Loki’s back, stroked up and down the spine, until Loki quieted. 

“Again,” Loki said. The nausea had subsided, the pain ebbing away. He rode Barton this time, his cunt clenched tight on the soldier’s cock. He made the pace brutal and fast, wringing his own pleasure out of the Hawk’s body. But, again, the true pleasure came with the spill of semen, rendering Loki a quiet wreck, a fevered thing wracked with shudders. 

After, he had touched the sceptre to Barton’s chest. “ _Forget_ ,” he’d whispered, and Barton went about his duties with no sign that he had ever been anything more than a servant. 

But something in him remembered. 

In that underground place, shielded and hidden away, Barton came to him again. He knelt before Loki, seated on rough concrete steps, and stripped his clothes away with gentle efficiency. Shifting away borrowed mortal clothes beneath beautiful illusions. Loki set the sceptre aside, and let Barton pull him onto a blanket over the cold ground. 

Barton sealed them away. He closed the doors, cutting off sound. They were alone.

“Easy,” he murmured -- and other things like that, things that Loki might have said to calm a skittish horse. Loki’s heartbeat was racing; he was high on the power he had, high on the sceptre’s magic, high on the thought of his plans coming to fruition. And he was afraid, too, afraid of the fire in his body that had gone unquenched from their last couplings. 

“Why are you doing this?” asked Loki, as Barton worshipped him. Tracing the lines of Loki’s skin, summoning gooseflesh along the trail of his touch. 

“You need it, sir,” said Barton, and he positioned himself between Loki’s thighs and eased them apart. Exposed Loki’s cunt, long-hidden, one of Loki’s careful secrets. He touches his tongue to the thin slit, drawing forth slick from Loki’s body. Tongue moving in long strokes, pressing against that sensitive nub buried underneath his cock -- and then down again, pressing at his entrance. 

Loki felt exposed and aroused, drawn tight and too heated for his skin to contain. His head tipped back, and he let a breath escape, and it was like a dam bursting open. Barton pushed the flat of his tongue against Loki; Loki gasped in his breath. Barton licked inside him; Loki whined. Each action drew forth pleasure-soaked sounds, escaping from Loki through no will of his own. The pitch rose, until Barton shifted and licked a stripe up Loki’s cock -- so hard, swollen with blood, eager and wanting -- and began to swallow Loki down. His finger slipped inside Loki, and Loki’s cries echoed off of the cold walls. 

He was spent but not sated, the fire within him still burning bright. 

“That will not stop it,” Loki whispered, breathed. “You must--” 

“I know,” said Barton. “Just getting you ready.” 

And what a difference it made.

Barton leaned Loki onto his side, shifted his legs open and pressed inside. The way was slick, tight from his climax but pliant from his pleasure. Loki dipped his head and bit his hand as aftershocks shivered through him, clenching tight around Barton. 

At first, Barton fucked him shallow. Pressing in only partway before pulling out, out until Loki could feel the lips of his cunt gripping the head of Barton’s cock, and then pressing back in again. He did this until Loki squirmed for more, and then he moved deeper, slow, stroke by stroke, until he buried himself inside Loki to the root. 

Loki became aware, slowly, that he was whimpering, almost constantly, almost on every breath.

“I got you.” Barton’s voice sounded broken, and for that Loki was grateful. This wasn’t just the act of a servant. If it was, it would be humiliating. Barton wanted him, even if only a little, and Loki could use that. This wouldn’t be a complete loss.

Loki succumbed to Barton’s broad, skilled hands, and this time he came like the crack of a whip, a convulsion of his body. Barton’s seed inside him felt like perfection, like a dream of pleasure, like a drug. 

And that was only the beginning.

Perhaps it was pheromones that let Barton come back, again and again. Perhaps he was just clever about how he paced things, using his fingers while Loki was too strung-out with need to object and then fucking Loki exhausted when Loki could think again. Either way, it was ten hours before they came out of that room, and Loki had long since lost count of how many times they’d come together.

The last time was slow. Both of them were raw and exhausted, and Loki didn’t want to do this anymore, if he ever had in the first place. Penetration hurt, so Clint seated himself inside and then just stayed, pressing kisses along Loki’s jaw, his throat. Slow things, lingering touches. 

They rolled over, somehow, leaving Loki on top. But he was too tired to keep his weight braced, so he curled on top of Clint, rocking his hips slow, widening his legs and sighing into Clint’s throat. 

Clint’s fingers buried in his hair.

Loki whispered something, something like _my archer, my hawk_ , and then something like _please, please_ , because he couldn’t continue, he was broken and overcome. 

“Just tell me,” managed Clint. “Just... tell me.” 

Loki braced himself on his arm and leaned up and his lips formed the words _come for me_ against Clint’s. 

Seed painted the entrance to his womb, again. His cunt clenched, briefly, a candle-flicker of pleasure. And then it was over. 

~*~

After this, Loki speaks more freely. He gives his help with no apparent thought of reward. 

He explains, carefully, to the Avengers -- all of them, now; isn’t he just the hero of the day: “The cult and the virus are not one and the same, but both reinforce one another: cult rituals spread the virus, and the virus makes the mind susceptible to the cult’s message, before language is completely destroyed. I have no doubt that the two were released by the same person, or group.” 

“Someone’s trying to take over humanity,” says Bruce, measured, “by taking away our free will, and subjecting us to the rules of this religion.” 

“Think of it as -- they intend to wipe your minds, and reprogram,” says Loki. “So that _this_ is the proper way to build a home, _this_ is the proper way to bake a loaf of bread, and _this_ is the proper way to worship. There will be no conflict, because there will be no question of methods or goals.”

“Programming how?” asks Stark. “Is that also via virus? That seems a bad way to do it.” 

Loki shakes his head. “Programming would be through spoken language,” he says. “Through the universal tongue of humanity. Each ‘program,’ to the Sumerians, was a _nam-shub_. A set of instructions.” 

“Do you know who this someone is?” asks Steve, his brow furrowed. 

Loki shakes his head. “Not the slightest idea.” 

~*~

In the period of 36 hours, the third room of the cell is converted to a clean room and laboratory. Banner and Stark both work with him, and SHIELD-cleared scientists come and go. Loki picks up the basic concepts quickly and then expands their knowledge exponentially -- how _funny_ it is when they stare so.

“DNA,” says Loki. “It isn’t simply a string of information, any more than your mind is a string of information.” 

“Everything is a string of information,” says Bruce.

“Simplistic and, as it happens, wrong,” returns Loki. DNA is a control panel, an access grid, an incantation. It is a beginning, a doorway. And Loki keeps them just well enough informed that they have no idea what he’s really doing. He glosses over a few steps in the process, a few key points, until they have two working prototypes. 

“How many SHIELD agents are infected?” he asks Widow, when she brings him breakfast. He hasn’t slept much from the night before; this fragile mortal form has begun to wear. 

She eyes him. She does not trust him; the others have begun to see the necessity in it. It doesn’t matter; he doesn’t need her trust, not unless she meddles with Hawkeye. 

“Six,” she says, finally.

No wonder the timetable has grown so abruptly accelerated.

~*~

Loki’s fingers trace over his belly as the shower’s water cascades over him. 

There’s an ever-so-slight curve below his navel. 

~*~

After one exhausting day, Loki awakens to find that Clint is moving him from lab to bed. Carrying him. He stirs, briefly, and murmurs: “I didn’t want to hurt you. It went too far.” 

“So you took my memory?” Clint’s jaw is tight.

Loki’s long fingers brush from cheekbone to chin. “I never changed your heart.” 

Clint pulls his hand away.

“I’m making a better world,” Loki persists, deciding to risk a little truth. “A world for you, and the child.” _And for me._

Clint goes; Loki slips back into unconsciousness. 

~*~

The apocalypse comes, not with war and panic and fire but with soft, quiet things. Certain countries begin to shut down. Power flickers. Television broadcasts show groups of people sitting quietly, changing _sa na du ri ma zu na fa_ in unison, at length. There are no riots, no panic in the streets. 

“The nam-shub of Enki,” says Loki, tapping at the clear glass of a test tube. “Made to obliterate all the structures that have gone before.” 

“So _are_ you Enki?” asks Stark. “Have you done this before?” 

“A more complicated question than you know.”

He glances aside, and sees that Barton is with the guard detail, watching them.

~*~

Later, Rogers visits. Stark confides in him: “I wonder,” he says, “maybe if we took this virus and just modified it... we could make a dent in a lot of wars. Save a lot of lives.” 

“Tony...” 

“I know, I just ... maybe it would be better.” 

“It wouldn’t be better,” says Rogers, flatly. “It’s not worth the sacrifice.” 

“Yeah.” 

Stark doesn’t believe him.

Loki remains silent. 

~*~

Perhaps predictably, Stark is the first to succumb. He was already giving in to the virus’ concept, Loki thinks, it was only a matter of time.

He mutters, while he works. It takes hours for Loki and Banner to notice that his mutterings have turned to babble. 

~*~

Natasha storms in, early one morning. She has a gun in hand. Sweating, pale. 

“I know what you’re doing,” she says. “You bastard, I know what you’re doing.” 

She knocks him onto his back, presses the gun into his throat. He goes limp and he closes his eyes, thinks _everything could be undone_. 

“The nam-shub,” she hisses. “It’s not a virus. It’s verbal. The nam-shub of Enki isn’t a virus.” 

There are hands that pull her off of him. She struggles only weakly, and falls to the ground. Gasps for breath.

“Fo ni ca ta da ri beh ti da,” she says. “Sa na du ri ma zo fa no...” 

“What did she say to you?” asks Bruce, intent.

“Nonsense,” says Loki, clearing his throat. “Just nonsense.” 

~*~

Next to succumb is Maria Hill, Loki hears, and then Fury himself. The guards are gone. Steve Rogers hangs on by a thread. 

Loki and Banner finish the serum. “Release it,” Banner breathes. “Put it in the water supply. Put it everywhere.” 

He goes into a coma, soon after.

Rogers slips into incoherence, too. 

Left is just him and Barton. 

“C’mon,” says Barton. “We’re doing this.” 

~*~

Barton pulls over the van, partway to their destination. He drags Loki into the back. Their lips meet, and it is hungry, rough and ravenous, as though it’s their last chance. It isn’t. Loki knows it isn’t. The little serum guarantees that, at least; they will live long and well, and he will take Clint to his bed many a time in the coming days. 

But there is something to be said for feverish urgency. His prison clothes are ripped open, and Clint’s teeth sink into his neck, and Loki yowls and digs his fingernails into Clint’s back. 

And then Clint brushes the top of the jumpsuit aside and goes still.

Beneath, Loki’s nipples have started to swell: the beginnings of breasts. His belly is just visibly distended, barely through the first trimester. Clint cups the swell where the child grows, and he dips his head and licks at Loki’s nipple.

Loki goes tight, as though a shock of electricity had jolted him. 

“Yeah,” says Clint, and he suckles at one nipple, then the other, until they are red and tight, and Loki is whimpering beneath him, tangling his fingers in Clint’s too-short hair, rubbing himself against Clint’s hip. 

More clothes ripped away, and Clint wastes no time, sinks into Loki without any more foreplay. Loki is tight, from the months without this, weakened in his new body. He can’t command Clint anymore, can’t direct him with subtle flicks of muscle and the threat of a god’s power. He just has to hold on. 

Long, tortured thrusts into him, thrusting and rocking them against the side of the van. 

Clint shoves in particularly harshly. Stays, gasping, as he pours himself into Loki’s body. Loki himself is on the edge, straining for just a bit -- just a _bit_ more.

Clint withdraws, and he goes down on Loki where he is wet and well-fucked. It doesn’t take long, and he climaxes with the knowledge that Clint has the mingled tastes of both of them on his lips. 

He runs his fingertips over Clint’s temple, beaded with sweat.

“Shall we save the world?” 

“Yeah,” says Clint. His tone sounds regretful. Loki can’t quite tell why.

~*~

The building doesn’t quite look right, but he follow Clint anyhow. Up the stairs, into another room...

No. 

Loki whirls to face Clint, who has closed the door, locking them into a _broadcast studio_ , complete with microphones, with screens on standby. 

“What have you done?” asks Loki, filled with dread.

“You think I’m an idiot?” asks Clint. 

Loki moves to run past him, but there is an explosion of pain across the bridge of his nose, and he’s flung back. His hand comes away bloody, from his face. 

“I’ve been working on this for weeks,” Clint says. “Every radio in America that’s still on will broadcast. Every TV too.” 

“Viruses cannot spread by words.” 

“But nam-shubs are words. And your deprogramming, that’s words too. You wrote the nam-shub of Enki once -- or you remember doing it. Doesn’t make any difference to me. You say it, now, and we start deprogramming every human being on the planet.” 

“The virus--” 

“Yeah,” says Clint. “Yeah, the virus. The serum you developed. It sure does break up the deep structures of the brain, or whatever you said it does. You know what else I think it does?” 

Loki doesn’t answer.

“I think it makes them worship you.” 

He is calm, suddenly. His goal has been taken from him, snatched from his fingers. He has been outwitted for the last time.

“What gave me away?” he asks, finally.

“You said you were making a better world,” says Clint. “For you, that always means one where you’re in charge.” 

He flicks the microphone on.

“Say the damn nam-shub.” 

~*~

There are riots. Public disturbances. There is deep violence, and wars that start up again with a fire and hate that once wasn’t so terrible. The Avengers do their best to fix things.

Loki, meanwhile, is back in his cell. The lab is cleared away. Everything about that virus has been destroyed -- all data, all samples that they can get their hands on. No one knows, still, who was behind the plot. Not even Loki. Perhaps it was the Chitauri, or their dark master, attempting another way of controlling humanity. It’s as plausible an explanation as any other. 

After weeks of maddening quiet, Clint Barton shows up again. He nudges the cell door open, and tosses in a change of clothes. 

“You’re free to go,” he says. 

Loki hesitates. “Why?” 

“Because I told them what happened,” he says. “That you worked your ass off to save us. And that, in the end, you came through.” His and Loki’s eyes meet, and it leaves Loki breathless, for a long moment. 

Clint turns away.

“You’ll still be in a SHIELD facility,” he says. “But you’ll have some choice in where, and some freedom of movement. Monitoring you, not imprisoning you.” 

“And where will you be?” Loki asks. 

“Where I belong,” he says. “With my kid.” He steps over to Loki, and touches Loki’s chin, tilting his head up. “And with you.” 

~*~

_In those days, the lands of Subur (and) Hamazi,_  
 Harmony-tongued Sumer, the great land of the decrees of princeship,  
 Uri, the land having all that is appropriate,   
The land Martu, resting in security,  
The whole universe, the people in unison  
 To Enlil in one tongue spoke. 

_Then Enki, the lord of abundance whose commands are trustworthy,_  
The lord of wisdom, who understands the land,   
The leader of the gods,  
 Endowed with wisdom, the lord of Eridu  
 Changed the speech in their mouths, brought contention into it,  
Into the speech of man that until then had been one. 


End file.
